Shelock
by SharlotteHolmes
Summary: AU. SHElock / Sherlock finds herself tackling several tasks all at once, the case of the linked 'suicides' and getting along with her new flatmate - John Watson.But, which will be easier to come to terms with?
1. Shelock

A study in pink.

An adaptation of the BBC's take on Sherlock Holmes, based on the original books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock is an incredibly intellectual woman, her life revolves around helping out Detective Inspector Lestrade solve cases that the London police fail to solve in time. She has the attitude of a high-functioning sociopath, but she knows this and is not willing to change. She takes no interest in men or women – for that fact. All she cares about is keeping her constantly active mind occupied. But is there more to this sold-hearted woman?

* * *

><p>Shelock.<p>

The slender, milky white legs of Miss Sherlock Holmes were draped over the arms of the small armchair she had inherited from the flats previous owner; this morning, she lackadaisically flicked through all eighty freeview channels, none of the noise was registering properly as she stared at the flickering screen. She hated television, there was very rarely anything of any interest to her; there was often a show about forensic scientists in different states of America, the uneducated working class trying to determine the father of someone's child and tele-shopping – _**Who, apart from elderly ladies, would want to purchase 'Luxurious pink leopard print, faux fur scented clothes hangers'?**_  
>She was just about to give up with the early morning television, when, on her third trip back to the starting channels, she stumbled her way onto the morning news reel...<br>"Good Monday morning," sang the botoxed reporter, "its eight fifteen on the twenty seventh of January, I'm Susan and this is the morning news. Our top stories for today..." The newsreader rattled on about inflation – 'the death of the euro' and a local depute over a new bus route cutting through a park that resulted in communal bins being defaced... all of this was far too mundane for her intellectual brain to process; that was until the final bulletin started,  
>"...And finally, some tragic news came in today as Beth Davenport, a local MP to the Ministry of Transport has been found dead in building lot, the coroner's inquest suggests this is suicide and bares several similarities to those of which we have heard of in the past few months. The Metropolitan police will be with us momentarily to catch us up on the latest suicidal pattern. Back in five, where you are." Her eyes widened as she absorbed the bulletin...<br>_**Brilliant! This is just what I need. They wouldn't broadcast a conference unless there was something new, something they had overlooked as coincidence perhaps – a common factor in all three cases... Three suicides all linked... Serial suicides and right on my doorstep! Think back, when was the first...**_ she thought, jumping to her feet and knocking over a box of papers as she paced the wooden floors barefoot,  
><em><strong>October 12<strong>__**th**__**, Mr Jeffrey Patterson. Found in an abandoned office block in Westminster, Maida Vale. The second, another male, this one much younger. Eighteen if I remember accurately... Of course I remember accurately - November 26**__**th**__**, James Phillimore, found in a sports centre and now Beth Davenport. Oh it's Christmas!**_  
>She heard the weather forecast in the background, she knew she had exactly two minutes to grab her phone from her dressing gown pocket and reseat herself comfortably before the conference started.<p>

Sergeant Sally Donovan was heading the conference with an exhausted looking D.I Lestrade slumped next to her, _**Obviously out late last night**__. _She muttered to herself as she looked over the creases of Sally's shirt, the faint mud splash on her tights and coffee stain on the collar of her shirt; this of course, was not obvious to anyone who wasn't trying to look for these sorts of things. _**Most probably with one of her male 'friends'**__. _She quickly added just as Donovan opened her mouth to begin,"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior minister for transport was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will be taking questions now." She stated, showing no sign emotion, just formality – as though she was reading from the guidebook. Just as well she wasn't paid to show empathy or sympathy... The hotline phone rang in the background as the press got to their feet. Lestrade sat up and pulled at the neck of his blazer to straighten it out, leaning in slightly to talk into the microphone as the press got ready with their bombardment of questions and flashes of the cameras. The first to ask a question was a scruffy looking gentleman with curled black hair and an unfortunate resemblance to a weasel,  
>"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" he asked, his accent giving away he was from northern London, his manner of dress suggested a tabloid paper, perhaps something like The Sun judging by the old model of Dictaphone and state of his suit... Lestrade shuffled in his seat, evidently uncomfortable with this line of questioning; the camera turned to film both the reporter and the D.I in the hot seat.<p>

"Well, they all took the same poison; um... they were all found in placed they had no reason to be... None of them had shown any prior indication-" but he was cut short by the press weasel,  
>"but you can't have serial suicides!" he obnoxiously butted in. Granted, that was his job, but still... it was frustrating. And by the slight tensing of his jaw, Lestrade felt the same way.<br>"Well, evidently, you can." He answered bluntly, his expression one of impatience. The next line of inquiry came from an Ukrainian gentleman, his accent betraying him slightly, yet his English was spot on,  
>"These three people, there is nothing that links them?" he asked, holding what Sherlock assumed to be an electronic tablet – a much higher branch of newspaper, perhaps The Guardian judging by the razor he used and the tie he wore, a gift from his wife, undoubtedly.<br>"There's no link found yet, but..." A long pause, "We're looking for it. There has to be one!"  
><em><strong>Perfect. That's my cue.<strong>_She picked up her phone and unlocked the keypad, tapping the app to retrieve the numbers of all the mobiles in that room at once, allowing her to send a mass text; her thumbs breezed over the keypad – "Wrong!" The message read as she pressed send; leaning back in her chair and waiting, her breathing was even as her free hand let her fingers pad the arm of the leather chair in time to the Waltz she favoured... It didn't take long before the room was full of the sound of text alerts and people shuffling to check their phones. You could see Sally's face sink as she read the message – yet she didn't miss a beat, she knew full well who had sent the message and was determined to not be shown up in front of thirty members of press.  
>"If you've all got texts, just ignore them." She ordered loudly, retaining the attention of the press, but the weasel was obviously intrigued,<br>"It just says 'wrong'." He announced despite the fact that everyone in that room had just got the exact same message; Sally flexed her jaw slightly in stress,  
>"Yeah, well just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." She added quickly over the noise of the audience she had. The Ukrainian spoke again,<br>"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" He asked with a tone of 'aren't you wasting your time?' about it, Lestrade leaned into the microphone again before Donovan could take over,  
>"As...As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Um... It-It's an unusual situation, we have our best people investigating..." he stumbles over the question like a runner over a hurdle,<br>_**Ah, you make this too easy**__._ She smirked as she sent the same message again, she smugly ran a hand through her knotted shoulder length, brown hair as she relined against the cushions. Every phone in the room lit up, buzzed or sang with the same message,  
>"It says 'wrong' again." Called the weasel as he stated the obvious for the third time, definitely The Sun. Lestrade checked his fancy gadget of a phone before looking at a fuming Donovan...<br>"One more question." She said through gritted teeth, letting out a loud sigh afterwards, the next and final reporter to ask a question was a woman in her early forties, evidently a mother, one teenager, unreliable husband but a good career – a middle class newspaper going by her suit, glasses and choice of hairstyle...  
>"Is there any chance these are murders? And if they are, is this be the work of a serial killer?" She asked, her voice smaller and slightly nasal, Lestrade – who was temporarily blinded by a camera flash, attempted to answer the question,<br>"I... I know you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides, we know the difference." He paused and Sherlock hesitated over the send button of the third text, her timing would be comical and accurate, but she held off to see what he had to say next, "The poison was clearly self administered-" yet again, he was cut off,  
>"Yes, but if they <em>are<em> murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" This wasn't a bad line of enquiry, it would help reassure the public, give them a glimpse of hope,  
>"Well, don't commit murder." Lestrade answered quickly, sounding irritated when Donovan turned her head and covered her mouth conveniently with her hand, causing Lestrade to nod at whatever she whispered,<br>"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions." Straight from the Police-How-To-Answer-Reporters handbook. "We are all as safe as we want to be." Lestrade nods, and with the slight look of relief, leans back from the microphone.  
><em><strong>Send. Honestly, Lestrade... False hope only makes things worse<strong>__. _For the last time today, the entire room filled with the sound of phones going off and people muttering between themselves about the texts they had received. Sherlock just lounged back in her seat and waited for the reactions of Metropolitans' Finest. Instantly, like flicking on a light, Sherlock had another idea, grabbing the phone and typing **'You know where to find me. SH'** and sending it to Lestrade's personal phone, he received the text almost immediately after it was sent, a smile of exasperation toyed with his lips. He slipped his phone away and got up,  
>"Thank you." He was looking at the press, but the 'thanks' were obviously aimed at Sherlock who casually lounged in the arm chair in her trusty silk dressing gown. Donovan was hot on his heels as he left the room swiftly. She let a small, smug smile creep onto her lips as she got up and stretched her arms, clicking several vertebrae in her back with a groan of pleasure.<p> 


	2. Staphylococcus, Coffee and Chocolate

**Shelock, chapter two. A study in pink.**

An adaptation of the BBC's take on Sherlock Holmes, based on the original books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock is an incredibly intellectual woman, her life revolves around helping out Detective Inspector Lestrade solve cases that the London police fail to solve in time. She has the attitude of a high-functioning sociopath, but she knows this and is not willing to change. She takes no interest in men or women – for that fact. All she cares about is keeping her constantly active mind occupied. But is there more to this sold-hearted woman?

An adaptation of the BBC's take on Sherlock Holmes, based on the original books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock is an incredibly intellectual woman, her life revolves around helping out Detective Inspector Lestrade solve cases that the London police fail to solve in time. She has the attitude of a high-functioning sociopath, but she knows this and is not willing to change. She takes no interest in men or women – for that fact. All she cares about is keeping her constantly active mind occupied. But is there more to this sold-hearted woman?

* * *

><p><strong>Staphylococcus, Coffee and Chocolate<strong>

As she relaxed into the bath, submerging herself under the water to wash her untamed hair, she could just imagine the disgruntled Donovan chasing Lestrade into his office, evidently peeved about the texts that Sherlock had so perfectly timed. She laughed, causing a bubble of air to escape her lips and ripple though the water as she closed her eyes.

Once the novelty of a quiet bath had worn off, Sherlock wandered around her flat in nothing more than her towel, picking up items she would need for her trip to the shops – she was out of milk, bread and any form of vegetation. She threw her phone, wallet, keys, a tiny concealed magnifying glass to check the condition of fruit, latex gloves so she didn't have to handle the goods and her leather notebook into her satchel before sitting at the breakfast table that was covered with all manner of biological research equipment. She drummed her fingers to Beethoven's fifth symphony as she admired her strand of staphylococcus aureus she had been growing.  
><em><strong>Staphylococcus aureus, warm temperatures – 37 degrees centigrade, reproduce and respire much faster than in the cooler climate of 31 degrees centigrade.<br>**_Just as she found a pen that worked, her phone started to ring, the blipping causing a lapse in her focus, her mind abandoning the Petri dish... the phone, which was in her bag which sat inconveniently out in the hall by the stairs, kept ringing and ringing; she sighed and rubbed her temple, putting the pen down before sliding off the stool, holding up her towel and making her way to the bag.  
>"Sherlock; make it quick." She drawled down the phone, using her shoulder to hold it to her ear, not paying much attention to the call to start with – being too busy trying to recover the strand of thought that had escaped her only moments ago,<br>"Sherlock! Good morning, I have something for you. At my office. Fresh in this morning! But don't get too excited... I mean, it's just the usual – well, not the 'usual' but..." The voice of Molly Hooper rang in her ears,  
><em><strong>Ten thirty in the morning, very bubbly – more so than she would be at twelve... Coffee, two sugars with milk. Probably a snack on the way to work, something high in sugar, bound to have worn off by lunch though – conclusion, chocolate cereal bar and coffee for breakfast.<strong>_  
>"Molly..." she started, hoping to question her a little further into what she had to deal with, but the ever eager to please, Molly took the pause as a chance to interrupt,<br>"I've only got it a few hours, so you best come down straight away; I've put it in your preferred lab, like you always ask – keeping one step ahead!" Miss Hooper chirped, most likely as she sat on the rotating stool in her office,  
>"I'll be there in twenty three minutes." Sherlock added on the end before hanging up quickly and dropping the phone back into the satchel.<br>_**Seeing as she was chirpy, it's unlikely to be that gruesome, so that rules out mutilation, deception, amputation or 'customisation', as Molly puts it... Shirt and smart black jeans it is. **_With a slight delay, Sherlock headed into her room to change into her cotton black shirt and jeans.

Stepping from the cab, the cold air hit her; she pulled the neck of her coat up to shield her before she entered the hospital. The automatic doors opened with a smooth whoosh of air, the sterile smell overwhelming her – Mike Stamford was stood, casually leaning his large arm on the reception desk in the foyer  
>"Morning, Stamford." She greeted him with a nod,<br>"Any luck with that flat share?" He called after her, causing her to come to an abrupt stop, almost a skidding halt.  
>"No... I must be a difficult woman to find a flat mate for..." with a smile lasting only a second, she took off back down the corridor, the same purpose in her stride, as she made her way through the halls down to the morgue, taking the steps rather than the lift, feeling doubly confident – the people here knew her, and what she was capable of.<br>"Morning Joan, new hair cut." This wasn't a question, merely a chance to flaunt her skills as she passed the morgue receptionist seconds before bursting through the doors into the 'cooler' room.  
>"Make my day, Molly Hooper." Sherlock called, tossing her coat onto an empty slab and pulling her latex gloves out before discarding her bag with her coat. Molly appeared shortly after - chewing what Sherlock could only assume was cherry bubble gum judging by its pungent aroma and unnatural colouration,<br>"Morning Sherlock." She beamed, passing with a gentle brushing against Sherlock's arm, "it's the one in the body bag." handing Sherlock a ruler to take measurements. Sherlock unzipped the black body bag, stood at the head of the table as she looked inside, seeing a middle aged man with severe lacerations across his chest, arms and face,  
>"How fresh?" she asked, her head cocked to the side as she took in every detail, noticing the slight discolouration to the left side of the man's receding hairline, <em><strong>smoker, fifteen years plus – held the cigarette in the left side of his mouth, hence the dried, chapped lip corner and stained canine. <strong>_  
>"Just in. Sixty seven natural causes... used to work here, I knew him, he was nice..." Molly rambled as she hovered at the foot of the slab. Sherlock spotted a small green fleck of... <em><strong>paint?<strong>_ In the victim's hair, she carefully brushed it free using the ruler Molly had given her, guiding it into a small plastic bag she had grabbed from Molly's lab coat when she brushed against her.  
>"Right, we'll start with the riding crop." She smiled at Molly, not a nice and friendly smile – more one of thanks, this was enough to rid her of boredom. Molly, who was wearing a faint look of concern nodded, leaving the room to find a riding crop – leaving Sherlock to prepare herself for the brutal attack she was about to conduct on a pig corpse – the only thing close enough to a human corpse, seeing as it was 'unethical' to bludgeon a cadaver; rolling up her sleeves and trying her hair back with a small elastic band, she turned her back to the body, closing her eyes to focus.<br>_**Thin and narrow blunt instrument, forceful and aggressive blows to the face – evidently a personal attack, first few strikes were hesitant to start with, they became more aggressive as the attacker became more confident with their blows. Jealous ex partner? With that amount of force, attacker would have to be male – much broader shoulders, capable of applying strong downward blows repeatedly. Ex boyfriend? **_She turned to look at the body, _**clear tan line on the wedding figure, consistent with the width of a 1980's wedding band – thirty plus years of a happy marriage, affair – unlikely. **_As soon as her train of thought came to an end, Molly re-entered the lab holding a riding crop, she knew it best not to interrupt with Sherlock's mind so she just placed it on the table next to the corpse, exiting to go and watch Sherlock work through the window on the next floor up – the observation room.

Having spent the past seven minutes – the average length of time a personal attack with repeated movements like bludgeoning or stabbing lasts, Sherlock struck the final blow to the pigs corpse before pivoting on the ball of her foot to look away and recover, catching her breath,  
>"So, bad day was it?" Molly laughed nervously as she made her presence apparent upon re-entering the cooler.<br>"I need to know which bruises form in the next twenty minutes; a man's alibi depends on it. Text me." Sherlock added before Molly could continue after her nervous laughter, her eyes fixated on Sherlock's flushed cheeks. A sudden blurt of words leaked from the young M.E's lips,  
>"Listen, I was wondering, m-maybe later when you're finished..." Sherlock looked up, her glaze falling onto Molly's newly pink tinted lips,<br>"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." Her brow furrowed in thought and slight confusion,  
>"I uh... I refreshed it a bit..." she laughed nervously again, her hands behind her back and a gentle sway in her stance, Sherlock barely raised an eyebrow before grabbing her notebook,<br>"Sorry, you were saying...?" She took out her pen and started to record her experiment details for future reference,  
>"I was wondering if you would like to have coffee." Molly asked, more monosyllabic this time around,<br>"Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs." She smiled briefly before striding to retrieve her coat and bag, floating out of the room._  
><em>


	3. Meeting John

Shelock. Chapter three. A study in pink.

_**One in the afternoon... too busy to eat. Right, what do I have? A speck of acrylic green paint from the victims hair, the bruises from the riding crop and a few minor bits of evidence that are going no-where. A bit of perspective is needed... **_she called up the file from her mental archive, _**the background; the end of last year, the victim's father dies suddenly, leaving the house to the older son, Jack – a hotel manager and our victim... he wanted the house to stay in the family though – Keith, the younger brother will inherit the house should Jack die without having any children. Early this morning, Jack was found dead in the garden pond, face down. He'd no reason to kill himself, so suicide is ruled out; he did have high level of alcohol in his bloodstream however. Jane is not convinced this was a random attack, when she was interviewed she kept referring to her husband and his brother's feud; **_her mind was racing a mile a minute, her eyes flickering across the room but she wasn't focusing on anything, she was searching the archive for any information on the brother – Keith.  
><em><strong> Keith – the younger brother, an interior and exterior decorator - spends the week in Edinburgh and only returns to London for weekend to visit his friends from university. Even though Keith was supposedly up in Scotland on the night Jack died, Jane certain he was responsible for her husband's murder...<strong>_ with a loud sigh, she relaxed against the back of the stool having held her breath as she rummaged through her thoughts, linking every bit of relevant information...  
><em><strong>There was gravel imbedded in some of the cuts...Green paint in his hair and on some of the gravel... <strong>_her train of thought was cut when she heard the door to the lab opposite slam shut; _**Urgh, people... **_she rubbed her temples with a tedious roll of her grey eyes and a loud inhalation of air through her nose, _**indentation marks in the gravel path – about one metre apart... Same width as a ladder? Yes... a green ladder, painted with an acrylic green paint! Jack also had a tattoo of a green four-leafed clover on his left shoulder, a superstitious man – high levels of alcohol, a gravelled path... body found early this morning, it wasn't in full rigger when it arrived – so, died late last night. Conclusion; an intoxicated Jack goes out for a late night stroll, determined not to walk under a ladder, he walked around, losing his footing on the loose ground, falling into the pond – having not died from drowning, the attacker returned to finish him off with a riding crop.**_ With a victorious clap of her hand she laughed triumphantly, rubbing her forehead with the back of her arm. _**Better get some form of evidence I suppose, considering that the Yard don't think my word is enough to convict someone... **_she scoffed gently, but not in a lady-like manner. Retrieving a pipette and some acid to dissolve the paint to determine its chemical compound, she reseats herself, leaning over a well lit desk, gently adding and swirling the acid to break down the paint fleck.

"Bit different from my day..." remarked a smallish man as he and Stamford entered Sherlock's rented lab, depriving her experiment of her attention momentarily,  
><em><strong>Short, neat hair, strong and confident stance, limp but no chair? Psychosomatic. Tanned face, no ring or tan line on the fourth finger – single, long term. Posted abroad – military man. <strong>_  
>"You have no idea." Retorted Mike who was dawning and small and unfortunate coffee stain on his gold, green and red tie...<br>"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine." she asked, barely looking up from the dish, adding the last few drops of acid as the paint dissolved; the room fell silent,  
>"What's wrong with the land line?" he asked, taking the stool opposite Sherlock who looked slightly unimpressed,<br>"I prefer to text" she answered bluntly, cocking an eyebrow, giving a sly sideways glance at the man hovering by the door – his cane being his only support, _**should I offer him a stool?**_  
>"Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike ended the brief discussion, looking at the military man who was rummaging in his pocket with his free hand,<br>"Here, use mine." He spoke with a slight accent, easily recognisable though. He took a large intake of air before his sentence suggesting hesitation.  
>"Oh... thank you." Sherlock got up with a quick look at Mike who was wearing a smile on his large lips; taking the phone, Sherlock caught a glance of the man's wrists, <em><strong>No tan above the wrist, tanned face – evidently not sunbathing whilst abroad...<br>**_"S'an old friend of mine, John Watson."__Mike gestured to the generous gentleman. The next question caught John Watson off guard,  
>"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, typing in Lestrade's person number to the man's phone along with "If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. –SH" into the message box.<br>"I'm sorry..?" he looked up at the woman in heels, her height only a few inches taller, but it gave her the advantage...  
>"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"<br>"A-Afghanistan... I'm sorry, how did you-" he began to question, a frown wrinkling his slightly aged face, but before he could finish, Molly Hooper appeared carrying a glossy brown cup of steaming coffee,  
>"Ah, Molly. Coffee – thank you." She smiled in thanks to the petite woman, "What happened to the lip stick?"<br>"It wasn't working for me" she smiled and laughed nervously again,  
>"Really? I thought it was an improvement, your mouth's too... small now." She sipped from the edge of her cup, sampling the coffee, <em><strong>not bad for a vending machine...<strong>_  
>"O-okay." Molly retorted to the back of Sherlock's head as she walked slowly back to her station with the paint, setting the cup down and with a shrug of her shoulders as the hot coffee ran down the back of her throat, warming her insides,<br>"How do you feel about the violin?" She asked Dr John Watson, _**of course he is an army doctor, he said so himself as he entered the room...**_ There was a three second pause as John tried to come up with an answer, unsure if the question was even aimed at him,  
>"Sorry, what?" He asked, shifting his weight from his handicapped leg to his more stable one, <em><strong>defensive.<br>**_"I play the violin when I am thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about one another..." she gave him a broad, almost cute smile as she continued to touch type on the ancient computer welded to the desk,  
>"Y-you told him about me?" He looked to Stamford who was admiring a vial of blood, he looked back at John, his chubby fingers wrapped around the vial securely,<br>"Not a word." Shaking his head innocently; John was obviously becoming agitated and was getting no-where with these questions,"  
>"Then who said anything about flat mates?" he asked, looking from the desk to Sherlock, his eyes linking with hers.<br>"I did." She answered quickly, turning on the balls of her feet and grabbing her coat before continuing to rotate whilst pulling it on, "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult woman to find a flat mate for... Now, here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." She shrugged modestly.  
>"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, a glint of curiosity in his eye,<br>"I've found a nice little place in central London, together, we should be able to afford it." She continued, ignoring his question as she grabbed her phone, spinning it with her thumb as it rested between two fingers, "Meet there tomorrow at seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." She smiled again, this one was fleeting as she brushed past him and towards the large wooden door, leaving a very confused looking John Watson stood there,  
>"Is that it?" his head bowed as he concentrated on turning without putting weight on his limp,<br>"Is that what?" Sherlock stopped just as her spidery fingers had curled around the silver pull handle, she briefly closed her eyes and let go, turning to face John and with one large step, she found herself in line with him, only a few feet away.  
>"We've only just met, and we are going to look at a flat?" John Watson asked, sounding a little sceptical.<br>"Problem?" She raised an inquisitorial eyebrow as she looked at his tan line again, just to confirm her first thoughts. John laughed silently, looking at a innocent looking Stamford,  
>"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we are meeting, I don't even know your name." <em><strong>He has a point Sherlock, should have thought this through... oh well, only another chance to flaunt your talents. <strong>_With a gentle, deep intake of air, Sherlock fixed her gaze on John Watson,  
>"I know that you're an army doctor and I know you've been delivered home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help – partly because you don't approve of him. Perhaps because he is an alcoholic or more likely because recently he just walked out on his wife... and I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite correctly I'm afraid. S'enough to be going on with, don't you think?" John Watson shuffled on the spot before pulling a face that one could only deduce as "Is this woman for real?". Before exiting the room, she pocked her head back from around the door,<br>"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." She gave John a playful wink and a click of her tongue before turning to Stamford, "Afternoon." She smiled before disappearing down the hall, her coat moving like a cape behind her.

The black cab pulled into Baker Street at some speed, turning the corner sharply,  
>"Just here." Sherlock didn't even need to glance up from her phone to know exactly where she was.<br>"S' eighteen quid, Miss." Yawned the cabbie over the intercom, Sherlock pulled a twenty from her back pocket and pocked it through the gap in the divider, jumping out of the cab to greet John who had arrived just seconds before her,  
>"Ah! Miss Holmes!" John remarked, smiling and offering his free hand,<br>"Sherlock, please." She smiled as she shook his hand firmly, _**firm and confident grip.**_ She noted,  
>"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." John Watson stated as he looked around the street,<br>"Well, Mrs Hudson, the land lady has given me a deal, owes me a favour." Her tone changed, "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida...I was able to help out." she added in hushed tones so as not to be overheard,  
>"Wait, and you managed to stop her husband being executed?" John Watson asked with a voice slightly higher than his usual, eyes widened in surprise,<br>"Oh no." She paused just for dramatic effect, "I ensured it." She added with a smirk as John's jaw dropped.  
>"Sherlock!" A soft and aged voice drifted from the doorway, both of them looked up to see an elderly woman stood in the doorway in a purple dress and s bright smile,<br>"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock added with a favourable tone in her voice, stepping up onto the step to kiss her on the cheek,  
>"Mrs Hudson, this is John Watson." She used her arm to gesture to him, allowing John to get past and into the flat, cane first.<br>"Hello, do come in." Mrs Hudson smiled at the pair of them as John heaved his soldiers' body inside.


End file.
